


To Be Still

by MechaPotya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Christmas doesn't exist in this universe lol, Comes with some cute art!, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, RuPaul's Drag Race References, everyone needs to see a sports psychologist 2k19, injuries, or at least as close as my angsty ass can get to it, pillowfort otayuri secret santa 2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechaPotya/pseuds/MechaPotya
Summary: Otabek has never been the type to rest.Yuri has never been the type to take care of anyone.But an unexpected injury is about to change all that.





	To Be Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeyno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyno/gifts).



> Listen, when your randomly assigned online secret santa is your IRL good pal and partner in figure skating fandom/ YOI fanfic crime, you pull out all the stops.  
> This is my FIRST EVER FANFIC!  
> The title is a lyric from the song “No Choir” by Florence + The Machine, which felt appropriate for both the story and me writing it, because there’s this line “And it's hard to write about being happy 'Cause the older I get /I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject / And there would be no grand choirs to sing / No chorus could come in / About two people sitting doing nothing”……which is to say my original fiction has a tendency to get super angsty and I wanted to try my hand at writing some nice happy fluffy stuff. There’s still some low grade angst because I’m incorrigible.. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Yes I *am* that bitch who illustrates her own fanfic, there's some art at the end!

1.

Otabek has never been the type to rest.

Between twenty hours of practice a week, workouts, physical therapy, and meetings with coaches, nutritionists, choreographers, costume designers, and the occasional awkward interview with this podcast or that sports blog, it’s not like there’s much downtime to fill. And when there is, Otabek finds productive ways to fill it. He chases his restlessness to the club, where at least the thrill of a bass line throbbing deep in his bones is enough to calm him for a night. He chases it on his bike at 125 kilometers per hour through winding roads, allowing the wind to whip the breath from his constricted chest. He chases it to the children’s hospital, where he delivers bagfuls of teddy bears to sick kids, which serves the dual purpose of putting his own problems in perspective, and keeping every square foot of his apartment from becoming a sanctuary for lost bears thrown onto the ice.

And of course there’s Yuri.

But Otabek has found that a long-distance boyfriend is somehow both a welcome distraction from the restlessness and a primary cause of it. Because while modern technology is admittedly fantastic and miraculous and a total life saver, there’s something about the fact that Otabek can reach his graceful arms out as far as possible and still be about 3600 kilometers short of touching Yuri, that makes the constricted, jumpy feeling burn brighter than ever.

Which is why, when Otabek realizes midway through the third rotation of a quad toe that he is not going to land it, and that he’s going to come down wrong on his bad ankle no matter what he does at this point, it’s not the impending pain that scares him, or the sick lurch in his stomach as the ice comes up to meet him at the wrong angle, or the awful look on his coach’s face as she rushes over to help him up. It’s what he knows this is going to mean, knows with absolute certainty before the words even leave the doctor’s mouth: rest. Three weeks. No exceptions.

—

“It’s not funny, Yura.”

Otabek frowns at his computer screen, which displays a cackling, shaking pile of blonde hair and leopard print blankets that up until a few minutes ago resembled his boyfriend.

“ _Yuri._ ”

“Oh come on,” wheezes Yuri, attempting to collect himself on the other end of the video chat, “you have to admit it’s a little ridiculous. One guy gets hurt and they cancel the whole thing?”

“It’s not _just_ because of me,” Otabek mumbles guiltily, more for himself than Yuri, “I mean they’d been talking about canceling Nationals anyway, there just aren’t enough of us.”

Yuri nods, a muscle twitching in his jaw from suppressed laughter.

Otabek hadn’t really expected Yuri to understand. How could he? No one had ever questioned whether Russia was a power player in the sport of figure skating. Russian Nationals, held the previous week, had consisted of no fewer than _twenty-eight_ competitors in men’s singles alone—and Yuri had beaten them all, including the reigning national champ Viktor, whom Yuri had deposed in his characteristically dramatic fashion—by getting a higher GOE on Viktor’s signature quad flip than Viktor himself. Otabek knew better than anyone all the hard work Yuri put into his training, all the frustrations and insecurities vented over late night Skype sessions, so to see him crowned the best of the best in a country full of fierce competitors? Otabek couldn’t be prouder.

But he also couldn’t expect him to understand.

“Hey,” says Yuri, softening, “you look really sad, Beka.”

“I’m not sad, this is just my face.”

“No, you have resting bitch face, not resting sad face. Come on, you can tell me, I promise I won’t laugh.”

Otabek lets out a long sigh. “I hate letting everyone down.”

“What? Who are you letting down?”

“Kazakhstan,” Otabek blurts, immediately regretting it. “Ugh, alright, go head and laugh, it sounds dumb when I say it aloud.”

But Yuri doesn’t laugh. Instead he furrows his brow quizzically. “What do you mean? You can’t let down an entire country, especially you! You’re the freaking _Hero_ of Kazakhstan!”

“ _That’s the problem!_ ”

Yuri’s eyes go wide and Otabek flinches at his own harsh tone. “Yura. Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“Yeah, well. I’d probably be bitchy too if I couldn’t skate for three weeks.”

Otabek makes his best apologetic face. “It’s not just skating. It’s _everything_. I can’t work out, can’t ride my bike, I can barely get off the couch.”

“There’s plenty of stuff you can do on the couch! Netflix, Mario Kart, Smash Brothers—”

“That’s all just different ways of saying ‘doing nothing’.”

“Wowww,” Yuri drawls, “you must be really fun to talk to at parties.”

“I’m not,” Otabek shoots back, “that’s why they make me DJ.”

“Oh, he’s got _jokes_.”

“I miss you.” Otabek barely hears himself say it, it comes out so low and soft and sudden. But they had come to a point in their playful banter when, if they were together, Otabek would have grabbed Yuri and kissed him, and Yuri would have accused him of playing dirty because Otabek knew he couldn’t win in a battle of wits, but then he’d kiss him back anyway. But they aren’t together. They’re thousands of kilometers apart.

“I miss you too.”

Yuri’s words shoot straight to Otabek’s chest, where they curl up and start to simmer, to boil, to urge him to go for a ride or run a 5k or take a damn Zumba class, anything, _anything_ to keep him from facing the moment after they hang up and Otabek is alone in his living room with a bag of ice on his ankle and nowhere to go.

But he can’t.

“Maybe I can just go for a walk around the neighborhood—”

“ _No._ Beka. You have to listen to the doctors! You could make it worse!”

“Look at you, the Russian punk lecturing me on responsibility.”

Yuri sticks his tongue out at Otabek. “I may have selfish motivations.”

Otabek raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“First of all, you have to beat Katsudon at Four Continents. But more importantly, you have to get better so we can see each other at Worlds!” Then Yuri grows a little quieter and starts absentmindedly fussing with one of the blankets on his bed. “And,” he adds, “I was thinking, I mean Worlds is technically a little after my birthday, but maybe we could—I mean if you want!—we could stay in Saitama a few extra days and like celebrate my birthday in Tokyo or something? What do you think?”

Otabek feels himself smile for the first time in days. “I think that sounds amazing. And not soon enough.”

 

2.

Yuri has never been the type to take care of anyone.

Most people seem to see him as someone who needs taking care of, which is annoying as hell, considering he’s almost eighteen and the _national fucking champion of Russia_. He doesn’t need Lilia nagging him to get a haircut before competitions or Viktor and Katsudon constantly asking whether he’s eating enough or Mila oh-so-subtly slipping condoms into his bag when Otabek visits.

Yuri is more than capable of taking care of himself. And Potya of course, but part of the reason she’s the best pet in the world, aside from her fluffiness and fierce attitude, is that she doesn't slobber or demand attention like Viktor’s dumb dog. She has dignity. And beautiful fuzzy foots.

But Yuri has never felt the desire to fuss over a human the way he fusses over his cat, the way pretty much everyone in his life seems to feel the need to fuss over him. He takes some pride in it. He’s above all that sappy _Stammi Vicino_ bullshit.

Of course, there’s Otabek.

Otabek, who Yuri thinks about constantly—in various states of undress, yes, but also when he sees a good meme, or nails a difficult step sequence, or hears a new song he knows Otabek would love. He wants to see Otabek succeed, and make him laugh, and do unspeakably dirty things with him. But coo and make goo goo eyes and ride horses side by side on a beach at sunset? Fuck that.

Which is why, when Otabek sends a photo of his swollen, ice-covered ankle with only a frowning emoji for a caption, Yuri’s sudden visceral need to wrap Otabek up in a blanket and carry him to bed and spoon feed him soup knocks all the wind out of his body.

 _That’s new,_ Yuri thinks.

But then again, there was that one time after Worlds last year. After being roped into four hundred dumbass group selfies with the Juniors at the banquet, Otabek and Yuri had snuck back to the hotel with every intention of spending a small chunk of their prize money on horribly overpriced booze from the minibar and drunkenly fooling around. But as soon as Otabek’s head landed on the pillow, jet lag hit him like a ton of bricks and he was dead to the world.

And Yuri just…looked at him. Thinking about it now, it might have been creepy to watch him sleep, but Yuri couldn’t help it. There he was, cooler-than-cool, stoic, brooding DJ Otabek Altin, drooling on a pillow with his hair messed up and kind of flopping into his eyes. Yuri had reached down and softly brushed it out of his face, and at his touch, Otabek had stirred a little and made the softest little noise, suddenly sounding and looking so much younger than nineteen. And all at once, Yuri had felt like he was looking at the little boy Otabek must have been back in Almaty learning to skate for the first time, and the grimacing fourteen year old white knuckling his way through barre exercises at some ballet camp Yuri could barely remember, and the hot-as-hell leather-clad motorcyclist who’d saved him that day from his rabid fangirls, and the man he was growing into, the man he was watching him become.

It was the closest Yuri had ever felt to reverence, and he’d chalked it up to the booze at the time, but looking back now, Yuri isn’t sure he’d had anything to drink that night at all.

—

“Ow! Fuck!”

“You can’t! Laugh! At your boyfriend’s! Misfortunes!” chides Mila, whacking Yuri with her skate guard for emphasis. She’d seemed sweetly concerned when she asked Yuri how his Skype call with Otabek went, but of course he should have known better: having lost any high ground for critiquing Yuri’s skating technique years ago, Mila is thrilled to eviscerate his relationship skills any chance she gets. And regarding Yuri’s inability to keep a straight face while explaining that Kazakhstan has to cancel its entire national competition over the withdrawal of one skater? Mila has an abundance of critique to offer.

“Hey! No assaulting the national champion,” calls Yakov dryly from his office.

“I could have been the national champion too if it weren’t for those damn titless quad machine brats…” mumbles Mila, still salty over her bronze finish behind two fourteen-year-olds with triple axel combos and quad salchows under their tiny belts.

“Whatever, Otabek obviously would have won anyway, there’re only like three other guys he’d be competing against, and that’s only if they invited Uzbekistan!”

Mila shakes her head. “He’s probably really hurting right now.”

“Nah, he said the pain’s not that bad, and the doctor gave him the good drugs if he needs them.”

_Whack._

“Not physical pain, dummy!”

Yuri rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can, trying not to wince at the pain. “Whatever, he’s not sad, he’s just bored. You know how he is, he’s like a puppy, he needs to be walked twice a day.”

“How ironic,” chimes in Kastuki obnoxiously, spread eagling his way into their _private conversation_ , “whoever thought the world’s biggest cat person would fall for a puppy?”

“Ugh, don’t you have somewhere else to be gross, Katsudon?”

Mila takes Katsuki by the arm as he steps off the ice. “Nah, he came over to make sure I carried out the hit he took out on you.”

“Hey, I object to that,” whines Katsudon, “if I’m gonna Tonya Harding Yurio, I’ll do it myself.”

“In that case it’s not technically a Tonya Harding,” calls Viktor smugly from across the rink without coming out of his layback Ina Bauer, “it’s a Jeff Gillooly!”

“ _Lick my ass, Diane, she can do a triple!_ ” yell Mila and Katsudon in unison (and, if Yuri isn’t mistaken, he thinks he hears Yakov quoting along with them from his office).

“Speaking of—mmmph” Viktor thankfully doesn’t get the chance to finish his lewd segue, as Katsuki has the sense to shut him up with a kiss as soon as he skates over—though, Yuri thinks, that in itself is still pretty nauseating.

“I think what Viktor means,” says Katsuki, coming up for air, “is, ‘how’s Otabek doing?’”

“His ankle’s gonna be okay as long as he rests.”

Viktor shakes his head gravely. “He must be heartbroken that they had to cancel his nationals.”

“What? No, he’s fine!” Yuri snaps. Why does everyone think they know Otabek better than he does? “I mean, he said he’s disappointed to let his fans down but I keep telling him there’s no real reason to be sad. It’s not like there was any way he wasn’t gonna win gold, none of the other Kazakh men even compete internationally!”

“Yurio,” Viktor says patronizingly, “there’s more to skating than winning gold.”

“Yeah, especially for you, number two,” Yuri mumbles under his breath.

Viktor scoffs, then swizzles away in a huff.

“I’ll have to kick your ass if you keep bullying my husband, Plisetsky,” warns Katsuki, just a hair shy of completely kidding.

“Once again, no assaulting the national champion,” calls Yakov from his office.

“You might have to get a sign made for the rink, Yakov, or else you’ll lose your voice,” yells Katsuki.

“Ooh, or maybe we can make t-shirts,” squeals Mila, pinching Yuri’s cheek, “after all, this cute little bastard has a real talent for pissing people off.”

“ _I’m not cute_ ,” hisses Yuri, “I’m devastatingly sexy!”

“OK, first of all,” says Mila, “you can definitely be both, I mean, have you met me? It’s kind of my entire brand. And second of all, I need you gentlemen to escort me to the canteen before I faint from hunger like the delicate wilting flower that I am.”

“Delicate my ass,” spits Yuri as they unlace their skates, “you could probably kill someone with those thighs.”

“Bold of you to assume she hasn’t,” winks Katsuki, high fiving Mila.

—

Yuri is mostly silent during lunch while the other two babble on about who knows what insignificant crap.

Otabek isn’t _really_ heartbroken, is he?

Sure, he’d seemed a little sad over Skype. And tense. Agitated, even. But not heartbroken.

 _Uh oh_ , Yuri thinks. There it is again. That feeling. Like the only thing in the entire universe that matters is taking Otabek in his arms and squeezing him so hard that nothing in the world can possibly touch him, like if anyone even tried he’d tear them to fucking shreds.

“Uh, are you ok Yurio?” Katsuki asks, breaking Yuri out of his reverie.

“He’s fine,” Mila answers nonchalantly, “that’s just his ‘pining for Otabek’ face.”

“ _Aww,_ ” coos Katsuki.

“ _WHAT!?_ ” Yuri grits out through clenched teeth. “I do _not_ have a _pining_ face.”

“Careful, Mila,” Kastuki warns teasingly, “no one can find out about Yurio's super secret crush on his serious long-term boyfriend, remember?”

“Whatever,” growls Yuri, standing up abruptly and dumping the remainder of his gross salad in the trash.

He’s about halfway back to the rink when he hears Katsudon calling after him.

“Yurio, wait!”

Yuri slows down just enough to let Katsuki catch up without making it too easy.

“Hey.” Katsuki lays a hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we tease you so much.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I mean it. It’s not nice. Here, you can tease me back if you want.”

Yuri rolls his eyes.  
“Come on, I was a virgin til I was almost 24. I have a crippling fear of butterflies. Tatiana Tarasova saw me in my boxer briefs at that GPF banquet! You’ve got plenty of ammo!”

“If I wanted to verbally eviscerate you, Katsudon,” snarls Yuri, “I wouldn’t need help from you or anyone.”

Katsuki laughs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right,” Yuri says, shoving his hands in his pockets and pushing past Katsuki towards the rink.

“Hey, Yurio?”

“Ugh, _what?_ ”

Katsuki has his hands raised in surrender when Yuri whips around furiously to face him. “I respect that you don’t like to talk about your relationship with Otabek, that’s totally your prerogative. But if I might just offer a word of advice? Make sure he actually stays off that ankle.”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’ll admit I don’t know him as well as you do, but last time he visited he and I got to talking one afternoon while you were working with Yakov. He’s a really great guy, _nuts_ about you, Yurio, oh my gosh it was so adorable—“ he cuts himself off, catching a glimpse of the murder in Yuri’s eyes—“right, sorry, sorry, anyway, the point is, I found that he and I are actually pretty similar.”

Yuri barks out a laugh. Otabek and _Katsudon_? Similar? That’s a good one.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Katsuki, rolling his eyes, “I know, I’m a lame old nerd and Otabek is the badass hero of Kazakhstan, but under all that, he’s very…” Katsuki considers his words for a moment— “tightly wound. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, I just know that back in college, I hurt my back and couldn’t skate or even really get out of bed for a whole month, and it sucked. My anxiety was so bad because I couldn’t do anything but just sit with my thoughts. And Phichit’s hamsters.”

“Yeah, well,” grumbles Yuri. “Otabek’s not like that.”

Katsuki nods. “Okay. Just make sure he rests.”

Yuri slinks down into a seat at the back of the stands and pulls his hood up over his entire face so he can brood in peace for the remaining ten minutes of his lunch break.

Could Otabek really be _anxious?_ Like _Katsuki-level_ anxious? And if he is, how is Yuri supposed to help him from all the way in St. Petersburg?

 _He’s not a baby,_ Yuri reminds himself, _he’s older than you. He doesn’t need taking care of._

But then, he’d seemed so small and sad on Skype last night, especially when he said he missed Yuri—the way he’d said that made Yuri’s heart actually hurt, like physically hurt. He’d always thought that was just a metaphor.

But then he’d perked up when Yuri had mentioned them going to Tokyo—

And that’s when Yuri has a brilliant idea.

Once she returns from lunch, he runs it by Mila, who agrees it’s a good one, adding “hold on, I’ve got some condoms in my bag, let me grab you some.”

 

3.

“I’m coming!” shouts Otabek, “Hang on!”  
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to shuffle out of bed and hobble to the door once he hears the doorbell, and he crosses his fingers that the takeout delivery man won’t get fed up and leave before he can get there.

When he does open the door, he nearly falls over. Yuri steadies him with a hand on his waist.

Otabek is kissing Yuri before he even realizes what he’s doing. He’s kissing him and cupping his face and tangling his fingers in his hair, and Yuri is—meowing?

No, not Yuri.

Otabek breaks away with a startled laugh. “You brought your cat?”

Yuri grins. “This is no ordinary cat, Beka. Potya is now a licensed medical professional! She’s come to help with your recovery.”

“Is that why you’re here, too?” asks Otabek, stunned, as it hits him that Yuri—and his cat—are actually here, in Almaty, in his apartment, setting down luggage and making themselves at home. Maybe he’s taken one of those prescription pain pills without realizing it and this is all some elaborate hallucination?

But no, there are Yuri’s hands on his shoulders, guiding him to sit down on the couch, and there’s Yuri plopping a purring Potya onto Otabek’s lap, and there’s Yuri climbing onto the couch and nestling behind him, and there are Yuri’s arms winding around Otabek’s chest and Yuri’s legs wrapping around his waist, and there is Yuri’s mouth kissing him over and over on the cheek and whispering, “I’m here to do _this_.”

—

With fifteen pounds of solid fluff on his lap at all times, Otabek couldn’t really get up off the couch even if he wanted to.

“See? I told you, Potya’s a very useful rehab tool,” says Yuri, pausing to scratch her under the chin before returning to tidying up.

“Thank you, Nurse Puma Tiger Scorpion,” laughs Otabek, before adding, a little softer, “and thank you Nurse Yura.”

Yuri finishes tossing out takeout containers and wiping down the counters, then snuggles down next to Otabek.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” says Yuri, slotting his face in between Otabek’s neck and shoulder, “of course I know. But I didn’t want you to have to do it alone—oh.”

“Hm?” Otabek shifts to face Yuri, sending a disgruntled Potya scrabbling for a more comfortable spot.

“Nothing, I just. I think I just figured something out. About why everyone back home babies me so much.”

“Because they love you?” Otabek smiles as Yuri scrunches his face into a bratty scowl. “You just figured that out?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He does.

—

“Look at Potya,” Yuri laughs afterwards, “she’s _scandalized._ ”

“Listen, Puma Tiger Scorpion, when two internationally ranked figure skaters love each other very much—“

Yuri cackles deafeningly loud in Otabek’s ear and it’s fantastic and perfect and for the first time in months, Otabek feels completely, totally at ease. “I still don’t understand how you were able to bring her here,” he muses, stroking Yuri’s hair.

“I told you, she’s a medical professional.”

“No, but seriously.”

“Seriously! She’s an emotional support cat! Do you need to see her paperwork?”

Otabek snorts. “Emotional support?” He casts curious a glance at Potya who is brazenly licking her own butt.

“It’s mostly just so I can take her with me to competitions and stuff. I told Yakov I’d only agree to see the sports psychologist if she’d sign the papers.”

Otabek sits up a little. “Sports psychologist?”

“Yeah, I told you. I’ve seen her a couple times, she’s cool.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” Otabek definitely would have remembered that. Hell, if Yuri had told him, he would have some idea what a sports psychologist _does_.

“She like gave me some tools to relax before competition and deal with pressure and stuff. She’s also trying to make me less…I don’t know, I forget how she put it but basically she’s trying to get me to be less of a dick to my rinkmates. That one’s a work in progress.”

Otabek furrows his brow. “Did something happen? Why did you have to go see her?”

“I didn’t do anything, I swear! Yakov made us all go see her after Georgi…”

Yuri had told Otabek about Georgi’s breakdown after Worlds last year.

“How’s Georgi doing, anyway?”

“Better, apparently, but I think Yakov wanted to make sure the rest of us got help _before_ we got to that point.”

Otabek thinks about that for a moment. Then, “Do you feel like it helps you?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I definitely felt more focused at nationals. I’m not sure if it was because of the therapy or not but I’m not about to argue with the results.”

They lie in silence for a while before Otabek feels more than hears Yuri murmer “Beka?” into his neck.

“Mm?”

“Are you anxious?”

Otabek has to laugh a little at that. “I was just thinking I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.”

“No, like, in general?”

Otabek considers that. “What do I have to be anxious about?”

Yuri hesitates. “You said the other night you felt like you were letting everyone down. Do you like…think about that a lot?”

 _Only when I breathe_ , Otabek thinks. And just like that he can feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders, and that hot buzzing threatening to awaken in his chest the second Yuri takes his hand off it. He lets out a deep sigh.

“Do you think they have sports psychologists in Almaty?”

“I’m sure they’d get the Hero of Kazakhstan anything he asked for,” Yuri replies, kissing Otabek gently on the shoulder.

“Sometimes it feels like too much to be the Hero of Kazakhstan. I’m just a person, you know?”

“I think your fans know that.”

Otabek raises an eyebrow. “Please. Do _your_ fans know _you’re_ just a person?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “My dumbass fans think I’m a catboy from some anime. But yours seem to genuinely respect you. They know how hard you work, and how much you love skating and your country, and they love you for it. You don’t have to be a hero, just be you.”

“But who am I if I’m not the Hero of Kazakhstan?”

“You’re _my_ hero,” Yuri whispers, pulling Otabek into a kiss.

Otabek tries to kiss him back, he really does, but he can’t stop the laughter from wheezing out.

“ _What!?_ ” demands Yuri.

“I’m—sorry—“ Otabek chokes out, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face, “I just. Yura. That was the corniest thing anyone has ever said to _anyone_. And _you_ said it!”

Yuri turns a truly spectacular shade of crimson that he can’t quite hide even as he clutches his hands over his face. “Oh my god. Oh my _GOD_.”

“Hold on, I just have to text Katsuki about this real quick—“ Otabek reaches for his phone and Yuri catches him by the wrist, screaming “don’t you DARE, you MOTHERFUCKER!”

“Potya, you may want to avert your eyes, you’re not going to like where this is going,” laughs Otabek as the scuffle for the phone dissolves into something else.

—

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen RuPaul’s Drag Race!”

Yuri finishes setting up the stream on his laptop then settles himself in beside Otabek. He’s taken to wrapping his entire body around Otabek while they watch TV, and Otabek does not mind at all.

“So, what, it’s just like, who’s the prettiest one?”

“Um, I’m sorry,” scoffs Yuri, affronted, “is figure skating about who’s the prettiest? There’s _skill_ to it Beka, there’s _training_ , theres—actually, you know what, drag and figure skating are pretty similar now that I think of it. We even both have death drops!”

“I bet you’d look really pretty in a dress,” purrs Otabek.

“Ok, we’re definitely gonna circle back to that comment later, but first I need you to pay attention,” urges Yuri excitedly, “they’re explaining the prizes they can win!”

“Who’s that one?” asks Otabek. “I like her.”

Yuri snorts. “Katya, the gorgeous blonde Russian? How original of you.”

“Hey, I know what I’m about, Plisetsky.”

—

Otabek has never been the type to rest.

But as long as he has to, he figures these are probably the perfect conditions.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 
> 
>  
> 
> here's the song I referenced in the title, ["No Choir" by Florence + The Machine ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AexrAvyJjJY)
> 
>  
> 
> Also if you like skating, gays, and drag, please go read ["Middle of Winter With So Far to Go" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590701/chapters/38880467) which I have the pleasure of beta reading, it's SO GOOD!!!  
> 


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